His father was back. He had crashed the minivan into the front steps, bending the cast-iron railing forward. Mohan Lal reversed a few feet, then pulled into the car’s usual spot. He cracked open his door, and the car’s overhead light illuminated his disheveled hair. He tapped his head against the steering wheel two times before emerging from the vehicle.
Siddharth hurried to the entrance hall, where Ms. Farber was already standing, one of her bony fingers on the waist of her burgundy dress. She threw her arms around Mohan Lal as soon as he entered, but he pushed her away.
“What happened?” asked Siddharth.
“What happened?” replied Mohan Lal. He placed his overcoat on its special wooden hanger. “What happened is that I live among foolish people.”
“What?”
Mohan Lal glared at Siddharth. “I ask you people one goddamned thing — to turn on the outside lights when I’m gone. But you’re useless.”
“Mo, it was my fault,” said Ms. Farber, flashing Siddharth a crooked smile.
He couldn’t tell if she was trying to make him feel better or express her irritation. Assuming it was the latter, he responded with a glare, then looked down at the old, cracked stones of the corridor floor.
“Thanks,” said Mohan Lal. “Your forgetfulness will cost me a thousand dollars.”
“So I’ll pay for it,” she said.
Mohan Lal placed his hat on the closet’s messy tool shelf. Siddharth thought that the furry, elliptical hat made him resemble the worst kind of person: a cross between an Arab and a commie. Mohan Lal stormed toward the dining room, Ms. Farber and Siddharth in tow. He took out his most expensive bottle of whiskey, the blue one he only opened on special occasions, finishing half of a tall drink in a single gulp. Siddharth knew it was something serious. Either something had happened to Arjun or his father had cancer.
“Mo, what’s wrong?” asked Ms. Farber. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”
Pulling a handkerchief from his blazer pocket, Mohan Lal wiped the back of his neck. “Rachel, I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Dad, what the hell is going on?”
Mohan Lal’s lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “Son, your father has some news.”
“What?” said Siddharth, swallowing hard.
“That bastard did it.”
“Did what?” asked Ms. Farber.
“The dean,” said Mohan Lal. “He has denied my tenure.”
“What — why?” said Siddharth.
Mohan Lal finished his drink without responding.
Ms. Farber placed her hand on Mohan Lal’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mo. But you gotta talk about—”
“Talk, talk, talk!” Mohan Lal raised his palms in the air and stomped off to the family room, seating himself on the armchair and turning on the news. Siddharth sat down on the love seat and placed a hand on his father’s knee. Ms. Farber walked in a little while later carrying a glass of her pink wine. She stood beside the television, partially blocking the screen.
Mohan Lal said, “You weren’t made in a glass factory.”
“What?”
“I can’t see!”
She stepped toward him. “I’m your friend, Mo.”
“Everyone’s your friend in times of bounty. Drought is a different story altogether.”
She took a sip of wine. “Mo, it’s hard to see sometimes, but trust me, this is still gonna be our year.” She combed his stray gray hairs with her fingers. “This tenure thing, you can appeal it.”
He shifted, evading her hands. “Believe me, there is no future for me at Elm City College.”
“Mo, it’s that pessimism that’s holding you back. I know it feels really bad right now, but it’s not gonna feel that way tomorrow.”
Siddharth thought about telling her to shut up, but he just said, “Jeez, let him feel bad if he wants to.”
“No, they will never offer me tenure, Rachel.” Mohan Lal stood up and tossed the remote control at the large sofa. It bounced off the leather and landed on the carpet.
“And why’s that?” she asked.
“Because I’ve left them. I’ve quit my job.”
Siddharth gasped. “You’re joking.”
Ms. Farber stared up at the skylight. Siddharth could tell she was really pissed because of the way her nostrils were flaring. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Mo. You didn’t wanna discuss this first?”
“So I needed your approval?” Mohan Lal had a fiendish grin on his face. “Shall I ask your permission before taking a shower?” He stormed off to his bedroom, his dress shoes clomping loudly on the corridor floor.
* * *
Later that evening, Siddharth tried to open his father’s door, but it was still locked. “Dad!” he called out, banging on the door and rattling the knob.
“Go away,” said Mohan Lal.
He kept knocking. “Open up, Dad. We need to talk.”
“Are you deaf? Leave me alone.”
Siddharth rested his forehead on the door. A few moments later, he felt her thin, cold fingers on his shoulder. She gave him a pat and tried to nudge him away. But he wouldn’t budge. He said, “My dad doesn’t wanna talk right now.”
She flashed a fake smile, then tapped on the door.
“Jesus, Siddharth!” said Mohan Lal, furious now. “Don’t you listen?”
“It’s me, Mo,” said Ms. Farber. “Come on, love. Let’s sort this out.”
Siddharth heard the sound of footsteps. Then the door cracked open. Ms. Farber slipped inside, locking it behind her.
Siddharth bounded to the main bathroom and sealed himself inside it, then punched the bathroom door. His knuckles struck an old nailhead, and one of them started bleeding. He sucked on his wound, soothed by the sour red trickle. He then went to his room and dove onto his bed.
Marc was lying down, listening to his Discman and staring into space. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” said Marc. He removed his headphones and walked over to Siddharth, giving him a light smack on the leg. “Don’t be a bitch. What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine. Actually, everything’s fucking great.”
Marc shook his head. “Yeah, everything’s fucking great. Sure. Your mom’s dead, and your dad’s fucking a crazy Jewish lady. I can tell you feel great about that.”
“Leave me alone,” said Siddharth.
“You sure know how to open up about your feelings. It’s a real talent, Sidney.” Marc left the room.
Siddharth tried to close his eyes and empty his mind, but his body was pulsing with nervous energy. He got out of bed and paced around in circles. He picked up one of Arjun’s baseball trophies, then hurled it at the floor. He eyed his old Call of the Wild report, which was thumbtacked to the bulletin board on the backside of the door. The dog’s eyes had once seemed so perfect, but they now looked like the work of a toddler. He ripped the report down and tore it in two, then walked over to Marc’s nightstand and picked up the cordless phone. Underneath it was a copy of GQ and a brochure for a teen tour to Jerusalem. Marc had never said anything about going to Jerusalem. Siddharth punched in Luca’s number, and his friend answered after three rings.
“Hey, kid,” said Siddharth.
“Yo, I was about to call you,” said Luca. “You’re not gonna believe what Jeanette just said.”
“Man, I got some news.”
“What is it?”
“It’s my dad,” said Siddharth. “He got laid off.”
“Shit, kid, that really sucks. You know I know how bad that sucks.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Luca. “My mother — she got another job in, like, three or four months.”